edented," and kept his eye on Verdi. And
so when the opera was written he pounced upon it, thinking possibly a
new star had appeared on the horizon. The opera was accepted. Verdi,
feverish with hope, moved his scanty effects to Milan, and there, with
his frail and beautiful girl-wife and their baby-boy, lived in a garret
just across from the theater.

Preparations for the performance were going on apace. The night of
November Seventeenth, Eighteen Hundred Thirty-nine came, and the play
was presented. The critics voted it a failure. Merelli, the manager, saw
that it was not strong enough with which to storm the town, and so
decided to abandon it. He liked the young composer, though, and admired
his work; and inasmuch as he had brought him to Milan, he felt a sort of
obligation to help him along. So Verdi was given an order for an opera
bouffe. That's it! Opera bouffe!--the people want comedy--they must be
amused. Even Verdi's serious work ran dangerously close to farce--bouffe
is the thing!

Merelli's hope was infectious. Verdi began work on the new play that was
to be presented in the Spring. The winter rains began. There was no fire
in the garret where the composer and his frail girl-wife lived. They
were so proud that they did not let the folks at Busseto know where they
were: even Merelli did not know their place of abode. Under an assumed
name Verdi got occasional work as an underling in one of the theaters,
and also played the piano at a restaurant. The wages thus earned were a
pittance, but he managed to take home soup-bones that the baby-boy
sucked on as though they were nectar.

Another baby was born that winter. The mother was unattended, save by
her husband--no other woman was near. Verdi managed to bring home scraps
of food by stealth from the restaurant where he played, but it was not
the kind that was needed. There was no money to buy goat's milk for the
new-born babe, and the famishing mother, ever hopeful, assured the
husband it wasn't necessary--that the babe was doing well. The child
grew aweary of this world before a month had passed, and slept to wake
no more.

But the opera bouffe was taking shape. It was rehearsed and hummed by
husband and wife together. They went over it all again and again, and
struck out and added to. It was splendid work--subtle, excruciatingly
funny, and possessed a dash and go that would sweep all carping and
criticism before it.

Food was still scarce, and there was no